


116 AD

by SoulStrings



Series: AU Drabbles [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, M/M, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1342972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulStrings/pseuds/SoulStrings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosmotius Pitchiner seeks to overthrow the Ceasar.<br/>ROtG Ancient Rome AU<br/>A lil blackice and by a little i mean there is porn ok just once its weird and not beta read.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was way past sunset, but the moon hadn’t completed its rise yet. There was light coming from every villa on the street – torches, lamps, yellow and orange spilling out onto the cobbled streets. The plebeian parts of Capua were rowdy with drunken workmen and bow-legged whores, but here there was only the quiet.  
The warm nights would end soon, become colder as winter drew near, but now there were only fireflies and the distant laughter of a party. A cat walked past, its black form slinking past the stumbling manboy. He looked to be just under nineteen, a dark hood helping him blend into the dark. His feet stumbled here and there. A bag was slung over his shoulder.  
He looked down and stopped. The road was deserted at this time, not a person in sight. He looked up. A sign read, ‘Via Stagnum’.  
Three more stumbling steps.  
The walls, he knew these walls. He stuck his hand out, running it over the familiar bumps and indents.  
It broke off suddenly, and he nearly fell. A hand caught his, hesitantly. The grip grew firmer when the manboy’s hood fell back, and the light glinted off his pale hair.  
He looked up.  
“Jac?”  
“Jem,” he coughed. “Jamie.”  
The manboy steadied himself and stood up. The other boy smiled.  
“You’re back soon.”  
Jac nodded disconcertedly, “Yeah, yes.”  
“You alright?”  
He shook his head, but then nodded. “Just need to see Dominus.”  
“Alright.” Jamie blinked. He looked up and down the street. “I could bring you, if you want.”  
Jac shook his head and grinned, “He’d have you lashed for skipping duties.”  
Jamie grinned back and shrugged. He motioned his head, “He’s in his study.” He caught Jac’s sleeve. “Aemilia Laurenia is with him.”  
Jac groaned dramatically. “I guess I shall have to rescue him once more.” He turned and walked. “I am coming, Domine, your white-horsed centurion!”  
Jaimie barked a laugh and waved at Jac as the fair-haired manboy moved further into the villa. His shoulder bag seemed to be getting heavier with every step. The smile fell.  
It fell even further when he saw a red-haired woman storm in his direction. He bowed his head and murmured a polite greeting as she passed. She pushed pass him as if he was a piece of furniture. An entourage of slaves followed her – a man and two girls. They nodded to Jac, and hurried after their mistress.  
Jac watched them go. “Guess he won’t need saving tonight.” he muttered.  
In the vacated room, the air crackled with leaking tension and palpable relief. Servants hurried in and out to clear the scattered fruit and the remnants of a vase. The candles were re-lit and cushions set back as if nothing had happened. A dark man sat in the couch, head and arms thrown over the headboard. His eyes were shut as if in exhaustion while the air stilled and set around him. Slowly, the silence returned.  
Jac didn’t think the man had noticed him. He could see the exposed column of the man’s neck, but not his face. Thoughts swirled, quickly squashed. He tapped his foot lightly to break the pause.  
The man’s eyes snapped open. “Jacius. You’re back.”  
“Domine,” Jac nodded. “I see there was another _pleasant_ visit from Aemilia.”  
The man groaned and rubbed at his temples. “I swear, I have to buy a new set of vases every time that blasted woman comes.” He sighed. “I might as well just buy a special set for her, and put them out every time she brushes past.” He pointed at the now-empty pedestal. Jac remembered the blue vase that once sat there. “That one was my favourite.”  
He sighed and sat up, swinging his head up to look at Jac. His lanky arms took up the entire width of the couch’s rests. Jac’s eyes trailed up, past the ashen skin and to the molten pits of gold. It was like staring at an eclipse, when the light vanished suddenly and the shadows grew.  
“Do you have something for me?”  
Jac started, and quickly walked over to the couch. “Yes.”  
The man took the bag from Jac, reaching for the yellowing scroll and opening it quickly. His face broke into a grin. “Very good, Jacius.” His eyes trailed over the words, focusing on the signature at the bottom.  
 _‘I do give my allegiance and arms to Cosmotius Pitchiner of Capua._  
 _Signed, Prodius Fictus Agmen’_  
“And you made good time too,” he said, nodding.  
Jac shrugged. “Sooner it ends, sooner I go.”  
The man looked up. “About that.” He rolled up the scroll and put it away. “I need more men.”  
Jac froze. “Pitch.” he gritted out. “You gave your word.”  
Pitch grinned. The light made his skin look grey. “Sooner it ends, sooner you go, right?” He stood up. “I need more men. Just a few more.”  
“How many more?”  
Pitch frowned. “That is for me to decide, and not for you to demand.” His eyes turned malicious. “Remember who you belong to, Jac.”  
The edge was gone in a blink, and Pitch donned his easy smiled. Jac stood frozen in the middle of the room, watching as Pitch walked pass him and out of the door.  
He stopped and turned, looking at the manboy. “Do your job well, Jacius, and I will reward you bountifully.”  
Pitch drew the curtain-door as he left, leaving Jac to his thoughts in the crowding room.  
The candles grew smaller.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Jac woke late. He had spent the night tossing and turning, adding and subtracting names and numbers from his mental register. Prodius Agmen was supposed to be the last. Now, judging by Pitch’s love of grandeur and the last few times he pulled this trick, Jac would have to add ten more names to his list. It seemed Pitch wouldn’t quit until he had every noble, merchant, general, centurion and their dog at his service. He could just as well overthrow the Ceasar with words and charm, but the people would only be won with a grand conquest – bouquets, battles, banners and all.  
He lay in bed, thinking about his new, strange job.

Two years ago, Jacius had been a water boy at a brothel in Mantua.   
It was a simple job – get the water, wait for the customer to finish, and help his ‘sisters’ clean up afterwards. The brothel wasn’t very big, but it was popular – the Golden Horse, near the market, left of the square and down the street until you hit the crossroads. He had the whole things mapped in his head. It was a peaceful thing to remember.  
He’d lived at the Golden Horse for as long as he could remember. Alaena, his eldest sister, told him that he was bought by the mistress when he was three. She’d seen him at the slave market, tiny and quiet, with the whitest shock of hair she’d ever seen, and she took pity on him. The mistress treated all her girls and servants with kindness, and the warm atmosphere was what made the brothel so popular.  
He started off by helping with the house – cleaning, dusting, sewing, cooking – and his sisters taught him to read and write. He began to keep the house’s records, and going to the market by himself.   
Puberty was an awkward feat – he’d grown up in a brothel, after all, and knew about such things too well. He stopped being a water boy and started taking on customers himself.  
And after a few years of that, Pitch found him.  
And now he was here.  
Helping to overthrow the Ceasar.  
He was pulled out of his thoughts by a friendly voice. Jamie was at the door.   
“Dominus is having a feast tonight.” said the smaller boy. “Just thought you should know.”  
Jac nodded. “Thanks, Jem.” He stood up and brushed himself down. “Need any help?”  
Jamie grinned, “Yeah, actually. Do you know where Cook buys the wine?” Jac jerked his head in the direction of the gate, and the boys chatted all the way to the market as they went about with their chores.

It turned out to be a cool night, and Jac was shivering slightly by the time the moon rose. The feast turned out to be a really small thing compared to the bigger ones Pitch usually had – this one was just for his closest co-conspirators. Aemilia’s husband, Lucius, was there, but his wife was thankfully absent. The servants came and went, but Jac was mostly left alone, and Pitch didn’t call for him. Him and Jaime passed the time making quiet jokes about the gathered noblemen – how one was prissy and the other drank too much wine and how they were all using big words and planning war. The last part was mostly out of fear. Fear nowadays ran like poison in the Pitchiner household – if Pitch failed, he would be imprisoned at best. His servants, however, had no other fate than death. All would be executed as traitors to the Empire, from the guards to the cooks to the maids.  
The last vase of wine was brought out close to midnight, and only two men were left. Pitch raised a glass to Lucius. His eyes fell on Jac, and Pitch grinned, beckoning the boy to him.   
Jac forced his legs to move forward no matter how much he would’ve rather run away.   
Pitch put a sloppy hand on Jac’s waist and pulled him closer. “Luc, this is Jac. You’ve met Jac.”  
Lucius raised a glass.   
Pitch continued, “He’s going to get the old bastard Nordinius for us.”  
Lucius coughed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, that is just cruel, Pitch. With your boy’s looks and everything…”  
“I’m riding on that to make it work.” said Pitch.  
“Hit him where it hurts, right?” Lucius sniggered.  
Pitch snorted. “It’s been long enough. It won’t hurt – it’ll just dig up old memories.”  
At that point, Pitch noticed Jac’s light shivering. He frowned in mock concern. “Are you cold, Jacius?” He filled up his cup. “Here, drink this.”  
Jac shook his head, “No, thank you, Dominus, I—”  
“I insist.” There was a dangerous glint in Pitch’s eyes. So the man was sober after all.  
Jac took the cup, brought it to his lips and took a sip. He swallowed down the bitter liquid, and made to back away when Pitch snatched back the cup and pulled Jac down onto his lap. He grabbed the boy’s hair and pulled his head down, baring Jac’s throat and forcing the cup between his lips. His hands were trapped behind him, and he didn’t dare move. The wine poured out, and Jac tried to swallow it as quickly as he could. Thankfully, he didn’t choke.   
Pitch held on to his hair as Jac gulped down lungfuls of air. “See? That wasn’t hard.” He poured more wine. “And you’re still shivering. Here,” and he repeated the process again. Tears started to gather in a film on Jac’s eyes, and he blinked them away. Pitch was still staring at him with that cruel calm. “Had enough?”   
Jac nodded as best as he could, feeling Pitch’s fingers tighten in his hair.  
Pitch turned to Lucius, who was watching the display with mild boredom.   
Pitch looked up, noting the moon’s position. “Your wife is going to start wondering where you are.”  
Lucius chuckled, “She doesn’t care.” But he got the message, and stood to leave. The looked back over his shoulder. “Send word when you’re ready to march. I will gather the troops.”  
“I will,” Pitch nodded his thanks.   
Lucius disappeared out of the room, and they heard the distant sound of the gate opening and closing.  
Now it was just Pitch and Jac.  
Pitch turned to him. “Now,” he said, grabbing the refilled cup. “You’re still cold.”  
Jac shook his head but his hair was pulled back and the cup was forced between his lips again. This time, he noticed, Pitch was slower, letting the wine go in a trickle instead of a rush. It gave Jac time to suck air into his lungs between gulps, and the acrid smell went straight to his head.  
Time seemed to waver after that.  
After one particular cup, Jac’s sight was peppered through with blinking black dots. He jerked away from the next cup, looking up to Pitch, pleading with him, “Please, no more.”  
Pitch tightened his grip on Jac’s head and pulled in down lower, forcing the wine into his mouth. Jac choked on it this time, coughing and gagging. Pitch let go and Jac tumbled onto the ground, barely managing to catch himself before he starting coughing and spitting out the wine from his lungs. He gulped down air and coughed some more, until his head swam and his throat hurt and every lungful of air seemed sweet and heavenly. He collapsed into an exhausted heap on the ground, trying to catch a breath. Pitch just watched him. Just as Jac began breathing normally, Pitch grabbed him by the hair and forced him back into the same old position. Jac was shaking his head and tears were springing to his eyes but Pitch just forced the cup past his teeth and Jac gulped it down before he drowned in it.  
Jac lost count of it after that, just knowing to swallow and breathe when he could.   
There was a slow warmth creeping through his veins, and the lights were growing dimmer.   
There was always a silence, broken only by his harried breath, and there was always Pitch.   
Jac was warm. Very warm. He could feel it boiling in his stomach, forcing his head to let go of his muscles, following Pitch’s patient urging.  
The world was growing dimmer and narrower, forcing Jac to look into those eclipse-like eyes.  
And then nothing was left.

The wine was weak, so it was long before Jac was sufficiently drunk. He’d stopped shivering long ago, but Pitch just felt like continuing, watching as Jac’s eyes glazed over and his body melted into Pitch’s hold. The action had a hypnotic hold on him, and repeating it brought him to an incredible state of calm. It was refreshing – seeing the normally tense boy relax and drop his guard. Well, at least he was tense around Pitch. He seemed to get along fine with that Jamie boy.  
Suddenly, Pitch didn’t feel calm anymore.  
His servants weren’t allowed to hide anything from him. Including Jac. Especially Jac.  
He pulled the boy up into his arms. Jac groaned and his head lolled back. A weak hand clutched at Pitch’s tunic. That made his even angrier.  
Most of the servants were asleep, and those who did see Pitch said nothing. He threw Jac over his shoulder and carried him to the master bedroom. It was dark inside, but the moon spilled in and bathed the room in white. Pitch dumped Jac onto the mattress, ignoring the boy’s pained groan and how he clutched at his head. Pitch ordered the approaching servant away and shut the door, before turning back to the boy in his bed. He was unsure now.   
He felt disembodied anger, aimed at no one in particular, but in this moment it focused quickly on Jac. The boy was keeping secrets from him. Pitch was going to draw out every single one. He stalked forward, climbing onto the bed and pinning Jac’s arms above his head. It was quick work to rid him of his tunic, but Pitch left the trousers. His hands itched to hurt and maim, dizzying electricity running through his limbs as he stared at the blank, clean body. The boy opened his eyes – still glazed, Pitch noticed – and let out a soft moan. Pitch growled, leaning in close, and hazily planned out his next move. Pitch was nearly sober, but the wine was still running through his veins, slowing him down and giving more leeway to impulse. It was dark, and there was a soft, pliant body beneath him. It resonated with him, brought back dimmed memories. His anger simmered down into a low heat.   
Pitch leaned into the crook of the boy’s neck, feeling the blood pump through thin skin. Jac smelled like the wine, bittersweet, but he mostly smelled like himself. Like sand and milk and water.   
Pitch leaned in closer, following the scent to the back of Jac’s ear.   
It seemed like the most natural thing to reach out and taste it.  
Jac shivered.  
Pitch’s eyes darted to the boy’s blank face. His anger rose again, and he bit into Jac’s neck. This time, Jac’s face twitched. Pitch tried again and again, nipping and biting up and down the column of his neck, careful to not leave any marks, until Jac was tossing and turning, moaning softly. Pitch felt irrationally proud, so drew down again, biting along Jac’s collarbone. The skin was soft and warm under his lips. He went further to Jac’s chest, trailing down to his abdomen, releasing Jac’s hands and using his own to grasp and pull and tug until Jac was writhing beneath him.   
Pitch hooked a finger into Jack’s trousers and drew them down until he could see the beginnings of white pubic hair. There was a growing hardness just below.   
Pitch tugged the trousers lower, but a soft sound stopped him.   
Jac was no longer moving. Everything was still, except for the boy’s heaving chest.   
The soft sound came again. Pitch moved up to study the boy’s face. It was pale and lovely under the moonlight. Jac let out another soft sigh and opened his glazed eyes.  
Something shot through Pitch’s gut at the sight. Jac was still drunk and incoherent, but tears were gathering at the corner of his eyes. Like the boy had lost something and didn’t understand why. Pitch frowned at the foreign feeling of guilt.   
Suddenly, a vehement, poisonous rage filled him. This boy was nothing but a slave with too much pride. He had worked in a brothel, serviced men of all kinds, and this wouldn’t be the first time he served Pitch. The boy didn’t deserve Pitch’s guilt.  
He bit into the crook of Jac’s neck, and the boy cried out. Pitch could sense Jac’s sobriety coming back, and Pitch’s actions grew frantic. There was a cup of animal fat for the lamps by his bedside, and he decided it would suffice for now. He turned Jac over, pulling off his trousers and throwing them aside. Coating his fingers in the fat, he began methodically stretching and preparing the body before him.  
Jac was moaning again now, shifting his hips weakly. Pitch brushed over a hardening lump, and Jac shivered. Pitch did it, again and again, until Jac was bracing himself against the mattress and thrusting back in time to Pitch’s tempo.  
Pitch added a third finger and Jac’s moans started coming out in the midst stuttering gasps and half-formed mutterings. It was unbearably hot in the room. The chilly breeze from the opened window made them both shiver.  
Slicking himself up, Pitch gripped Jac’s hips and pushed himself in. Jac stopped moving, gripping the bed covers tightly. Pitch gasped, losing himself completely in the warm tightness.  
Jack let out a long, slow groan and shifted beneath him. Pitch cursed, and Jac began to shift again. Pitch drew out and slammed back in to still him, and Jac whimpered. Immediately, Pitch felt wrong, and the feeling rose up into his throat.   
He leaned in hesitantly and pressed his lips to the back of Jac’s neck, tasting the sweat gathered there. It was salty and rich. The action itself felt old and learned, bringing back a sense of loss and longing Pitch couldn’t quite place. The mood was shifting. Jac stopped whimpering, and Pitch continued showering him with kisses, moving up and down the pale neck, nosing through the hair and nipping at the tender skin behind Jac’s ear, making amends, asking for forgiveness or absolution, he didn’t know. There was a simple, humble urge to calm and placate. He had his full weight on top of Jac now, and the boy had stretched out his neck to accommodate him. Pitch gathered Jac’s hand into his own and laced their fingers together, all the while staying buried in him. It felt so tender and hesitant, trance-like and Pitch just followed the feeling, curious as to where it would take him.  
Pitch began to move again, a slow rhythm of him just sliding in and out, savouring it all. Jac’s breathing deepened and he returned the movement with his hips. Pitch rained the kissed down onto his shoulders, gripping his hand tightly as he picked up the pace. Jac began to moan, his hips pushing back onto Pitch with more and more vigour. Pitch panted, letting go of Jac’s hand to grab his hips and push in better. He shifted his hips and Jac’s cried out. Pitch bit his lip and pushed into that spot again, harder, eliciting another cry from Jac. The boy’s pace was starting to stutter, and he would be done soon. He was clenching around Pitch with such sweetness that he could feel his own release coming.   
A few more thrusts down and Jac was crying out as he came, arching back into Pitch and clenching down hard on him. Pitch followed closely, his thrusts losing all rhythm and pace, stuttering in and out while he rode out his orgasm. There were black spots swimming in his vision, and he could barely hear his own pants over the ringing in his ears.  
He collapsed down onto the boy beneath him, smothering him down into the soft mattress. They stayed like that until Jac gave out a strained groan. Pitch rolled off of him, taking a moment to appreciate how the boy looked in the moonlight, with his white hair dishevelled and with sweat gleaming on his back. 

He loathed moving after that, but he knew Jac had regained enough soberness to remember this in the morning. He threw on his discarded tunic and walked out of the room, shivering at the sudden cold.  
The cook wasn’t in the kitchen, but Pitch knew where he kept the wine. There was a full vase waiting for him, and the cook knew that the master sometimes drank in the middle of the night. Pitch also took a glass with him, and headed back up. He didn’t see any of the servants, but he could head quiet shuffling in the distance.  
Jac was where he had left him, curled up on the mattress. The room smelled sweet – he hadn’t noticed that before – and had already gotten cold. Pitch put the vase and the cup down, and propped Jac up against his side. Jac groaned and his head dropped to his chest. Pitch filled the cup and took Jac’s head into his hand, bringing it level with the cup. He pressed it to the boy’s lips and waited.  
Jac’s eyes opened slowly. There was still a slight glaze, but he was awake now. He inhaled the smell of the wine and tried to weakly shake his head.  
Pitch waited patiently. Jac closed his eyes again, turning away from the cup.  
Pitch sighed and put it down, instead taking the wine into his own mouth. He leaned down to Jac and pulled down on the boy’s chin, opening him up. Jac whined as Pitch passed the wine through his lips, but he gulped it down nevertheless. Pitch took another mouthful, and pressed his mouth onto Jac’s again. The boy tried to shake him off and turn away, but he was too weak from the wine’s influence and their previous activity. Pitch had to stop momentarily where he thought of it.  
After a few times, Jac accepted the cup, already getting pulled under by the wine. Pitch managed to give him half the vase before the boy was sound asleep. He must have a very weak alcohol tolerance, mused Pitch.  
He finished off the rest of the vase, enjoying the warmth of the sleeping boy propped up against him. It wasn’t enough to get him drunk. Not even enough to give him a buzz. He really must get stronger wine – this was just glorified grape juice.   
He looked Jac over, taking in the rise and fall of his chest and the calm expression.   
At least one of them won’t remember this in the morning.

Jac groaned and clutched his head, cursing the sun and the wind and the walls and everyone in them. Jaime sat beside him with a wet cloth and a bucket of water, wiping down Jac’s sickly pale skin.   
Jac turned to his friend, whispering hoarsely, “Jaime, what did I drink last night?”  
Jamie shrugged. “You just disappeared towards the end of the feast.” He dipped the cloth in the water and shook it out. “I figured you were sleeping, but you weren’t here.” He stopped and looked at his hungover friend. “I’m guessing you came in later, because you were here by dawn.”  
Jac groaned and cursed. “I can’t even remember what happened last night!” He waved his hands. “How did I get drunk? Where?”   
Jamie wiped pressed the cloth to Jac’s forehead. “Can you remember something?”  
Jac shrugged, “I remember… I remember feeling scared. And maybe… sad?” He turned to his friend. “Jaime.”  
“Yes?”  
“Never, ever let me drink again.”  
“You got it.”  
Jamie added as an afterthought, “Also, did you fall or something, because you’ve got little bruises all over your chest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so um yes smut this is my first time and its weird i know i tried to fix it as best as i could but anyway yes  
> enjoy


	3. Chapter 3

Pitch had quietly collected thirty five of Rome’s greatest nobles and generals, and his army was now considerably large. Probably large enough to march on Rome, but he didn’t like taking chances. He wanted to be completely sure of his victory. If he failed, all of his carefully constructed plans, years of negotiations and meetings, would go to waste.   
There was a soft knock on the door, and he looked up to see Jac standing in the doorway. He grinned, standing up and walking over to the boy. Jac eyed him warily. His eyes held no recognition or memory.  
“Jacius,” Pitch waved a hand. “Please, come in.”  
The boy stepped in and sat down. Pitch walked around to his desk, rolling up the parchment sitting there.  
“How many are there?” Jac whispered.  
Pitch handed him the scroll. “One.”  
Jac’s eyebrows rose. “Just one?”  
Pitch pulled the scroll back. “Unless you would like more?”  
Jac snatched the paper from his hands, standing up. “No!” He amended, “No, it’s fine. I’ll get right on to it.”  
Then, Pitch frowned. Jac stopped short when he saw a grey hand hover just under his jaw. He forced himself to stand still. Pitch looked down at his with an unreadable expression.  
It was suddenly very quiet.  
Jac held his breath.   
The moment passed quickly. Pitch’s face became as blank as ever, and then he smiled and sat down, waving a hand.  
“Leave at dawn tomorrow. Take the coast route and report to me when you’re in the city.”  
Jac backed away. The eye contact never broke. As soon as he was out the door, he released a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. Looking down at the paper in his hands and the name it held, he quickly listed all the things he would need. This man was a wealthy patrician, a retired General living outside of Rome. That’s at least a week’s trip, so he’d need a small satchel to start him off and he could forage for or buy supplies along the way. A plan began forming in his head as he walked down the hallway to the stables. He would convince this man to join Pitch, just as he had the others. It would be easy to find him – who else had a name like Nordinius Nike Sentini? 

He was right – it took him a good six days before he saw the walls of Rome.   
He had taken the fastest horse, and only stopped to sleep and buy supplies. He still had a lot of money left, enough to get him a place in an inn for a few days while he tried to talk to this Nordinius. He would have to find a place in the south of the city, closest to where Nordinius was living. He would then scope out the place and try to set up a meeting. If that didn’t work, he would tail the man to a market, and try talk to him there.  
Jac was standing on top of a hill, and the city spread out in front of him like a great white sea. He could hear it from here, a distant din of thousands of people. He could see them too – little, beetle-sized dots moving through the narrow streets. The Via Sacra ran up and snaked through the city like a white ribbon, and the Ceasar’s palace was at its end. The white walls blazed in the afternoon sun. It was beautiful. Jac sighed.  
He nudged his horse, and began moving towards the gates.   
The sun was beginning to set.   
There was a line of people moving through the gates. The last market stands were closing up, and farmers were bringing out their produce to come again tomorrow. This was the busiest time of day, when so many carts were trying to move out of the city at the same time. They were forbidden to enter of move within the walls during the day, but were allowed to go freely before dawn and at dusk.   
Jac had to slip off his horse and guide it to get into the city. The guards didn’t pay him any attention. He had his hood thrown up to cover his hair, and his average stature helped him blend in with the rest. The only thing was his horse – it would be an unusual thing for a farmboy to own one, but thankfully, nobody said anything.  
The city was slowly shutting down, shops closing for the day. The foodstands were still open, fires blazing and steaming basins of soup still being refilled. His stomach grumbled, but he pushed on, determined to begin his mission as soon as possible.  
He’d been in Rome once before, but was confident that he could remember where to go. There should have been an inn close to the southern walls, somewhat hidden behind the bigger insulae apartments. It was perfect for him.

He had found a room and settled in just as the sun fell below the horizon. He would wait until the sky was completely black, and then go find the house of Nordinius. The innkeeper could know something, but he’d have to ask a guard to be sure.  
So he sat and waited.  
And waited.  
And waited.   
The sky grew dimmer and darker, changing from blue to pink to purple to black. The air grew colder and sharper, and he could smell fire and hear the chirping of crickets above the city din. There was a man shouting drunkenly just below his window. Jac hoped he would stop by the time he got back. He really needed a good night’s rest.  
Finally, he decided it was dark enough. His cloak would help him blend into the shadows and stay unnoticed. He put it on, carefully pushing back his hair and pulling on his sandals.   
The innkeeper wasn’t there when Jac got down to the ground floor, which was good. The street outside was also relatively deserted, with only a couple of stragglers left walking at this hour. Jac turned and started walking down towards the main street. From there, he had to walk further to find the street leading up to the patrician’s quarters, up on one of the hills. These houses were smaller than villas, but still much bigger than the plebeian’s insulae. These streets were completely abandoned, with silent light spilling out of houses onto the pavement. It reminded Jac of Capua.   
A guard was walking down towards him. Jac swung his head around to try and appear lost and confused. It worked. The guard stopped and nodded his head.  
“You lost?”  
“Yeah,” Jac sighed in mock frustration. “I can’t find the house of Nordinius Sentini.” He patted his bag. “I have an urgent message to deliver.”  
The guard rubbed his chin, and pointed up the street. “Go up and turn left. The Sentini villa is the largest one, at the end.”  
Jac smiled and nodded. “Thank you!” He started walking down the directed path.  
The guard watched him go, frowning. Eventually, he shrugged and resumed his patrol.   
Jac had reached the turn, and looked up. Woah. The villa really was big. Nothing compared to Pitch’s, but this was only a city home. He could only imagine Nordinius’ country house. It was slightly intimidating. He could see a guard standing at the gate.  
Jac gulped and pushed on. He squared his shoulders as he approached the guard. The man looked at his quizzically. Jac stopped.  
“I have an urgent message for Nordinius Sentini.” He added, “From my master, Cosmotius Pitchiner.”  
The guard looked him over. “Wait here, please.” He turned and disappeared into the house. Jac looked around quickly. He could probably climb over the wall. He gripped the stones and, finding them stable, began to move up. His previous missions taught him to always wait for the guard’s return from a hiding spot. You never knew what the reaction was going to be.  
The guard returned within a few moments, looking agitated. The man looked up and down the street, and seeing that Jac was gone, turned and shouted, “He’s gone!”  
Three more guards rushed out to join the first.   
The first pointed down the street, and then to the shortest guard, “Go down there, towards the fountains.” The one with black hair was ordered next. “You, go past, towards the Feralis House.” Then, the guard pointed at the last man left. “You, come with me.” He looked over the men. “We must find him! Go!”  
From up on his perch, Jac cursed.   
The guards had left, and the street was deserted. He could still hear their retreating footsteps. He would need to go, now, if he wanted to get away. He landed with a small huff, and took off after the guards. He turned the corner and spotted them further away, talking to the guard who had given him directions earlier.  
“Shit.”  
The directions guard shook his head, and pointed in Jac’s direction. The two other guards talked between themselves quickly, before nodding their heads and running off towards the city. Jac watched them go, mentally tracing a route which would bring him safely and quickly to his inn.  
He waited for the directions guard to turn and disappear from sight before he moved, trying hard to muffle his footsteps while moving quickly. He saw the last house on the street before the road went under a pair of gates and led away to the clustered plebeian buildings. Jac looked back again, and seeing nobody there, ran for the gates.   
Possible options ran through his head – he would need to get out of the city, yes, but should he risk staying at the inn waiting for things to calm down, or should he leave immediately? His horse was still tired from his journey, so their speed would be hindered. The guards would have faster horses – it was a stretch to assume they would give pursuit, but he needed to expect the worst. His supplies were low, but he could stop at another town for food. His money was also at the inn. Damn it.  
Nordinius was a lost cause. He wouldn’t listen to Pitch’s proposition, much less support it.  
And old enemy, perhaps? Pitch seemed to have a lot.  
He’d dealt with people like that before.   
It meant Pitch would assign him another name.   
And that Jac’s freedom was now further out of his reach.  
Damn it all.

Two days prior, Pitch was spenging the evening making final amendments to his plans. He would send word to Lucius as soon as Jac was back. They would march on Rome and take the city. If Nordinius joined him, then that bastard Aester would come too, so the city guard would be under Pitch’s control. There would be minimum resistance. It was perfect.   
The Capuan weather was dry and hot, and towards the evening it began to cool, leaving a comfortable breeze running through the city. Pitch had gone to the market and bought a new brand of wine. The maker assured him that it was strong and rich. Pitch had tried a cup, and found the maker’s words were true. Not enough to get him drunk, but enough to warm him up.  
Pitch was in the middle of revising his plan for the eastern sector of the city when a servant girl ran in. She bowed hastily, and held out a scroll of parchment. “Dominus, a message arrived for you.”  
Pitch waved a hand and the girl put the scroll on his desk, bowed and left. Pitch unfurled the paper, quickly glancing over the words.  
The retreating servant girl flinched as she heard a muffled roar and the unmistakable sound of breaking glassware coming from the master’s study.  
Pitch flung the door open, pointing at the startled girl. “You, send a message to Lucius.” Pitch hissed. “We march in two days’ time.”

Jac had decided to wait out the night, concluding that his chances with a tired horse and no sleep for a solid day were pretty dismal against numerous guards and their rested horses. His inn was hidden anyway, and looked too shabby for a lord’s messenger to stay in. Jac prayed that the wealthy patricians’ snobbishness came to the same conclusion.  
He felt on edge, but willed himself to relax. He’d taken the necessary precautions, covering his hair and blending in with the general populace. He wasn’t as good at the little things as Pitch, but he figured he was safe enough. He left the window open, just in case he needed an escape route.  
This was a weird mission. All of his previous ones were visiting lords at houses, or generals at their battle stations. Always in smaller towns and cities. He’d dealt with negative reactions before, but he’d never felt this… unsafe.  
He was bothered by the guards’ reactions.  
And something was bothering him about this Nordinius.  
Something about his name.  
As if he’d heard it before.


	4. Chapter 4

Jac was rudely jerked out of his sleep by the feeling of falling.  
What?  
How?  
What was happening?  
He groaned, and then yelped when he felt a boot connect with his stomach.   
His thoughts flew.  
There were muffled voices above him. He tried to move, and was jerked up by his hair. It felt sticky, and his forehead stung. There was a metallic taste in his mouth.  
He cracked open his eyes, trying to make sense of the moving shadows before he felt something scratchy and stuffy being thrown over his head. He yelped again as his arms were jerked back.   
He was fully awake now.  
Struggling only got him another kick in the stomach. He coughed, feeling the rough texture of rope as it was tied around his wrists. He gave a sharp jerk and felt it bite into his skin. Someone cuffed him over the head and he fell over.  
There were more muffled voices above him.  
One was hissing something about noise. Another replied with a few words on a keeper and a cell.  
He was dragged back up and onto his feet. A push sent him stumbling forward, but he stayed upright. His captor pushed him forward again.  
Jac could see a fait orange glow through the sac over his head, but everything else was black. His feet scuffled on the ground. He counted the voices – one, two, three. His head hurt, but it was clear.   
He stumbled and nearly fell over when the ground vanished beneath him. A strong grip on his arm stopped him short. He floundered around before his foot found the floor, a little below him. Steps. They were on the steps.   
Suddenly, he remembered the open window.  
With a quick shove backwards, he was off the steps. His captor yelped as Jac turned sharply, and the momentum sent the other man falling. That was lucky. He heard the man yell, and another man replied, just a few feet in front of Jac.  
The boy kicked out blindly, and felt his foot connect with something hard. The man in front of him cursed. Jac threw another kick, but it missed. Another kick. This one connected with something soft, and he heard the man groan. There was a thud on the floor as the man presumably dropped to his knees. Jac moved around him as best as he could, and then bent over to try shake off the sack on his head.   
He was lucky. They didn’t tie it at all, and with a few shakes, it was off and on the floor. The darkness of the hall was disorienting, but he could see moonlight spilling through a door. He hurried towards it, and into his room.  
The window was closed.   
Jac cursed.  
“Little shit.”  
And Jac froze.  
He turned around just in time to see a tall, grey-haired man swing something at his head.  
And then everything vanished.

Pitch sat stiffly on his horse, overlooking a mulling throng of soldiers below. He could see a sliver of light growing at the horizon. The sun was going to rise.  
The men below were hastily assembled two days before, but they were ready to go. It was only a small portion of the total troops. They would be the first wave.  
Pitch cursed. He was doing a lot of that lately.  
He turned when he heard the approaching hoofprints. Lucius sat atop his own horse, decked in glinting armour. He nodded to Pitch.  
Pitch turned back to watching the soldiers. “Are the other regiments moving?”  
Lucius nodded. “I’ve sent word to the north. The Eastern troops are already close. They’ll arrive around the same time as us, which is good.” He steadied his horse. “The Northern force will come up last, to clean up after us and secure the city.”  
“Good.” Pitch looked up towards the sun. “We will move in an hour.” He turned back, noting that Lucius followed.  
“How is your wife?” asked Pitch.  
“She’s fine.”  
“It was her handwriting, you know.”  
Lucius stopped. “Pardon?”  
Pitch reached into the satchel at his side, pulling out a crumpled roll of paper. “She sent this, two days ago.”  
Lucius took the paper, unfurling it. There, scrawled rather hastily but with a familiar flair, were five words – “You were betrayed. They know.”  
Pitch continued. “Aemilia does more than shop, you know.”  
Lucius handed back the message. “Yes, I know.” He turned to Pitch. “She hoped to marry you.”  
Pitch stopped and got off of his horse. They had reached his tent. He handed the reins to a servant. “Aemilia’s father and mine were good friends. As a result, so were we.” He pulled open the tent flap, walking in. “She never wanted to marry me.”  
Lucius sat down, watching as Pitch studied the maps on his table. Pitch caught the stare, and looked back pointedly. “Aemilia never wanted to marry me because I was too boring for her, Lucius. She knows me too well.”   
Pitch sat down. A servant came in, and Pitch motioned for wine to be brought in. The servant nodded and returned a few moments later with two cups and a vase.   
Lucius sipped quietly. “She’s your informant.”  
Pitch nodded. “There are a startling few things a woman doesn’t know, and that which she doesn’t know she can easily find out.” He smirked. “Learning that made my life as a traitor to the Empire so much easier.”  
Lucius waved a hand, “So you had her set up a spy ring?”   
Pitch laughed, “I didn’t have her do anything. There was a ring already in place.” He grinned and raised an eyebrow at the other man. “Women have a great deal more to do than sit around and be pretty, Lucius. She knows everything you know, and her friends know more. And what she knows, I know.”  
Lucius appraised Pitch with an impressed smirk.   
Pitch returned to his maps, making a few notes here and there, moving the symbolic pawns around to show off his plan.  
Lucius stared into his wine. He cleared his throat. “I haven’t seen the Jac boy anywhere today. Did he stay back at your house?”  
Pitch stiffed visibly. “Jacius should have already been in Rome by the time I received the message.” He slammed down a pawn with too much force. “Most likely, he’s been dead for days.”  
Lucius smirked, “You care about the boy.”  
Pitch looked up and snarled. “You presume too much!” He composed himself, hissing low, “I could care less about one slave. The issue was with the message he was carrying. Nordinius was supposed to join me.”  
Lucius drained his cup. “Nordinius was always too loyal to the Ceasar. I doubt he’d have joined you anyway.”  
“We share a wound.”  
Lucius shook his head, “Nordinius never blamed the Ceasar for that.” He stood up, brushing back his pale hair. Pitch stood up as well. The hour before their leave was nearly up.  
A servant came in once again, this time to take away the wine and quietly begin packing Pitch’s scrolls. More servants followed, some bringing out the sparse furniture and the others putting maps and notes into chests and bringing them out. Lucius and Pitch stepped out into the chilly morning air.  
“Well, well, I see you’re all geared up and ready to go.”  
The two men turned to see a red-haired woman standing a few feet away. She smirked and put a hand on her hip. There was a feral air about her.  
Pitch nodded. “Aemilia. It’s good to see you too.”  
The woman grinned, and nodded in return. “Nice to see you too, Cos.” She turned to her husband. “And how have you been?”  
Lucius balked. “Good. Thank you.”  
Aemilia shook her head and sneered. She waved a hand and her usual entourage followed her as she brushed past the two men. She called back, “Don’t die.”  
Lucius watched her go, and then turned to Pitch, shaking his head.  
Pitch chuckled. “Aemilia may be rough around the edges but she means well.”  
Lucius raised an eyebrow. “Means well?”  
Pitch nodded as he began walking towards his horse. “She’s been on this from the start. To be honest, I trust her more than you.”  
Lucius frowned. “Thank you, Cosmotius.”  
Pitch turned back to him. “I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just that she and I have the same motivator for this. She has her reason to hate the Ceasar.”  
The two men mounted and rode out. Under the hill, the soldiers were beginning to form neat lines and were starting to move. A few higher-ranking ones were shouting orders. One noticed Pitch and saluted. Pitch sent the gesture back.  
“Her sister was your wife,” Lucius said, remembering.  
Pitch’s lips drew into a thin line.  
The sun was now a molten pool beneath the brightening sky.   
It bathed the fields in red.

When Jac came to, it was dark. It was night. Or maybe there weren’t any windows.  
Getting up, he groaned at the pain in his head. It felt like it was going to split. He made to bring a hand up to cradle it, but found that both were tied behind his back. Instead, he looked around.  
He was lying in a square stone cell, very small, maybe big enough to lie out straight before he touched the walls. There was straw on the ground, albeit only a little, strewn about. One entire wall of the cell was just a grid of metal bars, and a heavy lock was hung there. The hall behind it was lit by a fire, but Jac couldn’t see where it was.  
He pushed himself up, groaning again as his muscles strained. He recalled being kicked there, hard and repeatedly. He could actually feel the bruises there. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up to his feet.  
The first few steps made his head swim. He must’ve been hit very hard. He shuffled over to the bars, and looked up and down the hall. He saw the lone torch attached to the stone, just a few feet down from his cell. There were more cells there, just like his, but he didn’t see anyone in them. It seemed more like a wine cellar than a prison, and if he strained his neck and pressed up against the metal, he could actually see that some cells held barrels and boxes. He couldn’t see a door anywhere.  
A wave of nausea hit him, and he sat down sharply.   
Shit.  
He eased back until he was lying down.  
His vision swam again, and he turned to his side, curling up.  
He breathed heavily until it began to pass, and by then, he felt himself starting to slip under.  
He let himself fall into a sleep.

The next time, Jac was awoken by a kick to his leg and a bucket of water being dumped on his head. He sputtered and coughed, shaking his head and watching the spray of water fly off.  
“Get up.” It was a man’s voice.   
Jac was gasping and staring blankly ahead of him, feeling his heart race in his chest. The man sighed, and grabbed Jac by his arm, dragging him up. Jac stumbled onto his feet, and was dragged forward by the man.  
His mind struggled to arrange itself.  
He was in a cell.  
Now he was in the hall, moving.  
He felt sick, and gulped down air to try and hold his stomach down. It helped, a little.  
The man dragging him was silent.  
“Where are we going?” Jac rasped.  
“The master requires your presence.”  
Jac blinked. “The master?”  
The man pulled Jac forward so the boy was walking in front of him. “General Nordinius Sentini.” Jac could hear the guard’s sneer. “You wanted to deliver a message to him, didn’t you?”  
Jac bit his lip.   
They stopped as the guard brought out a key and unlocked the door. Jac flinched as he was hit by the blinding sunlight. He stumbled out, blinking out the black spots that swam in his vision. He stumbled forward again and the guard gripped his arm and led him forward.  
Jac could hear birdsong. He noticed the bright paving under his feet. Slowly, he brought up his head and looked around.  
They were walking through a garden. It was around midday. The servants, gardeners and slaves stopped to look at them as he passed. Some had looks of confusion, and others looked shocked.  
The garden ended quickly, and they walked into the shade of the main building. Their footsteps bounced off the walls and rung loudly through the otherwise-quiet house. The guard pushed Jac around a bend, and then another until the walked out into an open area. A pool of water sat in the middle. Jac spared a quick glance, seeing that his hair, dirty and darkened with mud, was plastered to his head, and that there was a cut above his eye. Old blood dripped off of him, mixed in with the water. It ran down his cheek like a mask. He struggled to recognise himself in this haggard manboy reflected in the pool.  
The guard stopped before a pair of large doors. Jac heard voices on the other side.  
The door opened, and a plump woman slipped out. She turned to face the two and gasped when she saw Jac. She turned to the guard, pointing at the boy.  
“What is this?”  
“The prisoner.”  
“I can’t—!” she threw up her hands. “You can’t present him in such a state before the master!” She grabbed Jac’s other arm. He was really starting to get tired of all this grabbing. The woman pulled him away from the guard, who followed them closely. She led him back out into the gardens, and then pulled him into a dusty clearing. She looked around until she spotted a few servants walking nearby.   
The pointed at them, “You, get me some water. Go!”  
They bowed and hurried off. The woman turned to face the guard again. “This is the traitor?” She looked at Jac and sniffed. “He’s far too scrawny.”  
Jac would’ve taken offense if he wasn’t so tired.  
The guard put up his hands. “He put up quite a fight. Commander had to knock him out.”  
The woman sniffed again.  
The servants were back with two buckets of water. The woman pointed at one of them, and forced Jac down. “Pour it on.”  
The servant girl turned up her bucket right above Jac’s head. For the second time that morning, Jac gasped and sputtered as the cold liquid rushed over him. His tunic was soaked completely, sticking to him like a second skin.  
The woman grabbed his hair and started pulling at it. Jac hissed and ducked, receiving a sharp slap to his head for his trouble. The guard grabbed Jac by his shoulder to stop him trying again.  
The woman barked again, “You, go get another bucket. You, pour it on, but slowly.”  
A stream of frigid water hit his head. Jac shivered and jerked, but the guard was holding him tightly. The woman was pulling and massaging through his hair. Jac opened his eyes, and saw that the water running down him was dirty and brown.  
The woman was hissing all along. “The things I have to do to make things work around here, honestly. This is disgusting. What did you drag him through, a ditch?”  
“He was down in the cellar for a day.”  
The woman groaned again, before putting more force into cleaning Jac’s hair. She hissed back at the guard, “You were really going to present him like this?”  
“I didn’t think it really mattered! He’s a traitor, for Gods’ sake!”  
The woman barked. “Our master is one of the most respected men in all of Rome! He’s next to the Ceasar! Presenting anyone before him in such a disgusting state is an offense to him, and his guests, and this house!”  
The guard snorted, but backed down.  
Jac started going numb from the cold, and his neck ached from being held down for so long. He was shivering. Evidently, the woman felt this, because she slapped him over the head.  
“Don’t be going into some kind of stupor now, boy. You still have to answer for your crimes against the Empire.”  
The servant returned with the third bucket just as the water in the second one sloshed out. Jac was sitting in a small puddle, his white tunic stained brown from the washed out mud and blood.  
“Here, pour it over him. All in one, yes.”  
Jac shut his eyes this time, holding his breath as the water washed over him. It didn’t seem as cold any longer.  
He felt rather than saw the woman standing by his side. She took away her hand, ruffling it through his hair to get some of the water out. It dripped down onto the ground. She sniffed.  
“His clothes are disgusting.”  
The guard let out an exasperated sigh, “We don’t have time to change him, we need to bring him in now.”  
The woman swatted her hand towards the guard. “They were all talking pretty heatedly when I left them. They probably haven’t even noticed the time yet.” She frowned. “But yes, we do need to be bringing him in now. As soon as he’s more or less dry. Can’t have his hair dripping all over the floors.”  
The guard growled in frustration, pulling out a cloth sack and walking over to put it over Jac’s head. He recognised it as the sac from the night of his capture. It smelled like blood.  
The guard gestured towards the hunched boy. “There. No dripping.”  
The woman eyed him through narrowed lids, huffed but said nothing.  
Jac was pulled up and pushed forward again. This time, he followed blindly. His head hurt and he was shivering even through the midday heat. Suddenly, he felt angry.  
Well, time to face this bastard Nordinius.

The troops had stopped close to a small town. They were following the coast, more or less, on their way to the capital.   
Pitch had watched the sun duck down behind the horizon before he allowed the soldiers to set up camp. His own tent was put on top of the hill, where he could easily see both the encampments and the town.  
Lucius rode up to him and dismounted. “You brought my wife along?”  
“Hello to you to, Lucius.” said Pitch, going into his tent. “How was the tail end?”  
“Good, yes, no sign of trouble, but why did you bring my wife?” Lucius hissed.  
Pitch shrugged and sat down, pouring himself a cup of already-present wine. “Why not? She’s the only one here who knows exactly what’s happening.”  
Lucius stopped. “You mean she didn’t tell you?”  
Pitch sipped, “No, she did, but there are always the small details that one easily forgets.”  
Lucius didn’t say anything, but he still looked uneasy. Pitch quirked an eyebrow, “What, afraid you’re going to do something stupid and put her off?”  
Lucius looked at him, deadpan. “There is nothing I could do to put her off. She already despises me.”  
Pitch appraised him, and then sighed and leaned back, dropping down his head and closing his eyes.   
After a moment, he looked back up. “I feel like some sort of matchmaker.” He sighed and leaned back once again. “She doesn’t despise you, Lucius. Just like you don’t despise her.”  
Lucius grumbled.  
Pitch continued, “Aemilia finds you interesting.” He fixed Lucius with a frown. “I thought that would be the easy part to figure out.”  
Lucius stood up and poured himself his own cup. He snatched it up rather vehemently and sat back down to drink.  
Pitch started up his monologue again. “She likes picking people apart. She knows me inside out, just like she knows her father, her mother and everyone around her.” Pitch pointed at the other man. “You, on the other hand, are proving a little difficult for her to put down. She likes that.”  
Lucius pressed his lips into a thin line. “And you know this… how?”  
Pitch chuckled, “Aemilia and I are good friends, Lucius.” His head shot up and he smiled. “In fact, here comes the lady herself.”  
The tent flap opened and the said woman strode in. Without sparing the two men a glance, she picked up a cup and poured herself some wine. Daintily sipping it, she turned around and acknowledged them with a raised eyebrow. “Good evening.”  
Pitch smirked. “Aemilia.”  
“Cos.”  
“Aemilia.”  
“Lucius. How nice.” She sat down into a spare chair. “Today was awful. The town has nothing.”  
Pitch looked at her. “No news?”  
Aemilia flapped her hands, “No trinkets either. I so wanted a new hair tie.” She shrugged and sat back into her chair. “Suppose I’ll have to wait till Rome.”  
Lucius coughed stiffly. “Pitch and I were just talking about the march. Nothing you’d find interesting, of course.”  
Aemilia brightened at that. “Was it about the march today, or the march tomorrow? The next town over had Imperial soldiers stationed at the gates. They know we’re coming. However, the town more inland doesn’t. Quaint little place. One of the soldiers is from there.”  
Lucius frowned. “We didn’t know that.”  
Aemilia shrugged and sipped her wine, “Maybe you should listen better. You’d be surprised.”  
Lucius caught Pitch’s cheeky smirk, whose smile widened, as if saying, Told you she knows more than either of us. He turned to said woman. “Anything else?”  
Aemilia watched the wine swirl before answering, “Remember how I told you my friends and I have a messenger-bird system?” Pitch nodded. “Well, an hour or so ago I received one such message.” She looked up. “I know a girl who works in Rome as a servant. Distant relative’s previous maid, or something. Well, today she saw something peculiar in a rich man’s house.” She fixed Pitch with a look. “You know your slave boy, the white-haired, blue-eyed one?”   
Pitch froze.   
“He’s alive.” she finished.   
Silence descended upon the small room, as Pitch sat frozen and blank-faced.  
Aemilia watched him carefully.   
She cleared her throat, “There’s more, actually.”  
Pitch’s stony expression only stiffened as she proceeded.

Jac was dragged though the giant doors and thrown onto the floor. His knees hit the hard stone and he hissed at the sharp pain. The bag around his head was pulled up until his chest was puffed out and his back muscles strained.  
The muffled voices in the room grew silent.  
He heard his guard project out, “Cosmotius Pitchiner’s messenger, General.”  
A raspy voice of an older man replied, “I’m not a General any longer, guardsman.”  
There was a group chuckle, but it was cut short quickly as Jac was pushed forward, on display.  
The old raspy voice from before asked, “You had to knock him out?”  
A younger, gruffer male voice replied, “Bloody bugger broke out and tried to escape.” He growled. “Kicked Marcus pretty hard in the balls too, gotta give him that.”  
Jac shifted to ease the pressure on his back, smirking inside of the sac.  
There was a quiet lull.  
The old raspy voice came again, stronger now, with a touch of anger there. “Guard, please, remove the sac. I want to see his face.”  
Jac felt the tug of the cloth as it moved. Everyone waited as the guard pulled off the sac. Jac’s head dropped forward.  
He shook out his hair, and looked up to face his judges.  
His eyes met with the oldest man before him.  
Silence.  
Then, a loud, unanimous gasp.

Pitch stiffened visibly, his knuckles clenching and growing progressively whiter as Aemilia told him what she knew.  
When she was done, Lucius was eyeing Pitch warily. The grey-skinned man was staring blankly in front of him.  
At last, he looked up. “Thank you, Aemilia.”  
The red-hair sipped her wine. 

Jac’s angry stare quickly turned to confusion.  
The people in front of him were wide-eyed, looking at him as if they’d all seen a ghost.   
They were standing on a podium at the back of the room. A make-shift throne room for accepting guests. The man in the middle, seated on a high-backed chair, looked at him with shocked blue eyes. He was old, with a thick white beard growing past his chest, but he sat straight, and his block-like figure betrayed his military past. General Nordinius Nike Sentini. The man behind him was taller, thin and wiry. His hair wasn’t grey as Jac had thought, but a dusty brown, and he had short scruff on his cheeks. This must be the Commander of the City Guard, Aester. Pitch had told him about Aester. Next to him was a smaller, plump golden-blonde man. Something told Jac he was far older than he looked. His eyes were full of hope. Jac didn’t know his name. To the other side of the high-backed chair stood a green-decked woman, her brown hair tied up with jewels and feathers. She was gripping the chair with such force her knuckles had gone white. This one’s name Jac did know – Titania, the merchant queen.  
All were staring at him intently.  
Finally, Aester waved a hand at Jac’s guard, eyes as wide as ever. “Leave us.”  
The guard bowed and left.  
Aester turned to Nordinius, shaking the man. “North.”  
Nordinius had yet to break his stare. It was starting to make Jac uneasy, seeing the emotions gathering behind the old man’s eyes. He wanted to shrink away, hide from it.  
The woman, Titania, looked up at Aester, down at Nordinius, and then to Jac. She pressed a fist to her chest, and moved forward.  
The thick silence was oppressive, pushing Jac down.  
Titania took another step forward, and another, and another, until she was right by Jac. The boy recoiled as she sat down beside him. He stared at her, bewildered, as she raised a hesitant hand to his cheek. He flinched when she touched him.  
She stared, and he couldn’t look away.  
“Aurelius?” she whispered.  
A frown flitted over Jac’s face.  
Titania shook her head, holding his gaze.   
“No,” she rasped. “Not Aurelius.”   
“Jacynthus.”  
Jac’s eyes widened in shock.   
He jerked back.  
The name struck true.  
It twisted in his gut.  
Jacius.  
Jacynthus.  
Titania’s own eyes blew wide, her mouth dropping. Slowly, it drew up, into a broken, hopeful smile. Her eyes bubbled with tears.  
She grasped his face with both of her hands, and then threw her arms around him.  
Jac was stiff, frozen in place.   
Titania let go, turning to the other men.  
“It’s Jacynthus.” she laughed. “We’ve found Jacynthus. North, we’ve found him at last!”   
She stood up, pulling Jac along with her. He stumbled and followed, allowing himself to be dragged forward until he was standing by the steps leading to the podium. He was looking around with bewilderment as the strangers in front of him fought with their emotions. The plump golden man was grinning at Jac. The two others were still staring in shock.   
Nordinius was the first to break out of his stupor. He rose slowly, bringing his hands up, but not touching Jac. His eyes flitted about, gathering in the boy’s wide eyes and his familiar, painfully familiar face, his height, his hair and eyes and stature. Nordinius’ breath quickened, tears gathering in his eyes.  
“Jac,” he whispered.   
Warm arms enveloped Jac in a bone-crushing hug.  
“You’ve come back to us.”  
Jac stood frozen as the great Nordinius Nike Sentini cried into his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> more drabbles hells yeah  
> i've been wanting to write this since forever  
> ugh finally


End file.
